


My Imperfect Offering

by onenotelite



Series: Reunion Tour [1]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Friendship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onenotelite/pseuds/onenotelite
Summary: When you cannot be with the man that you love, you focus all that energy at first on finding a friend instead.(Or, how Fleabag tries to be a friend to the Priest without him ever knowing it.)Post season 2.
Relationships: Fleabag & Priest (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Series: Reunion Tour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007583
Comments: 50
Kudos: 130





	1. The time it takes to get from here to there

It is 93 days after you’ve had your heart broken and subsequently sicced a fox on a priest at a bus stop when it dawns on you that what you probably miss the most is having a proper friend.

  
  


It takes a lot of wallowing _(A LOT)_ to even get to a place where you can recognize needs, or gather the energy to fulfill them. Therapy helps, once you open up enough to let it. But what you need the most, outside of a night of fucking mindblowing sex, is someone to talk to. 

  
  


( _Can’t be him._ )

  
  


So when you cannot be with the man that you love, you focus all that energy at first on finding a friend instead.

  
  


Belinda is a solid starter. You start to meet up for drinks about every other week _(share an occasional flirt)_ and have the odd dinner here and there when your schedules sync up. She checks in by text in between. _(Probably making sure you haven’t jumped off a bridge. Or worse, gone to church.)_

  
  


Then there is the ex-bank manager, who pops in at the cafe every once in a while, but his wife makes Chatty Wednesdays a standing appointment. You actually make a point to learn her name after a fortnight ( _It’s Sharon)_ and after a month, you start having proper conversation. Talks about her kids a fair bit, but at least she owns up to it and makes jokes about it to take the edge off. Overall though she is a kind, patient lady. That ex-bank manager is a lucky man, and you can tell that he actually recognizes it now.

  
  


Surprisingly, Klare ends up being a solid companion as well. He pops up frequently in Claire’s phone calls and video chats to just say hello, and whenever woman Claire ( _HATES it when I make this distinction)_ has to pop off to deal with a work crisis, man Klare ( _thinks it’s hilarious)_ sticks around and keeps the conversation going for much longer. Most of the time he talks your ear clean off, but no matter what darkness in yourself you show him, he finds even the faintest glimmer of light. After a while, you understand how Claire fell for him so hard. He's fun to talk to _(if you can get a word in edgewise.)_

  
  


Even Claire herself calls more regularly, and you have proper conversations about things like work and life and telly and such. Like actual sisters. She doesn’t even hang up on you when you make jokes about her sex life, which is the ultimate sign of progress.

  
  


You’re still lonely though.

  
  


No one else notices when you drift away quite like he always managed.

  
  
  


\--

  
  


Even though you swore you would leave him be, you lack the complete self control to not at least keep tabs on him from afar. _(Old, shitty habits die hard)_

  
  


Just for a little bit, you promise yourself. Knowing you’re ultimately going to break that promise at some point. Likely quite a bit, honestly. 

  
  


Because you’re not a completely horrible person, you do make a point to actively prevent awkward, in-person run-ins. Go out of your way to avoid going anywhere near his church, his M&S, those Quaker meetings, and any other businesses or locations you know for a fact, or even suspect, that he frequents. Anytime you’re at dad’s you start shelling out for taxis, or you ask them to meet with you somewhere closer to your flat instead.

  
  


When he asked you not to come to church that night, you listened. For both of your sakes. 

  
  


But... you _do_ still creep on their social media. He’s started a Facebook page, posts some recorded sermons and all the magazines online. It’s never been more convenient to stalk a priestly ex-lover. 

  
  


You can tell he’s miserable.

  
  


The clips of his sermons that get posted he’s got a big plasticine smile but his eyes have lost their glimmer. He’s trying very hard to seem composed, happy even, but his energy bottoms out in the silences between prayers. Between that and the bags under his eyes, he’s obviously not sleeping.

  
  


Even his restaurant reviews seem sparse, and more melancholic. _(Can’t call them sad, because well, they were pretty pathetic in the before times)_

  
  


In a twisted way, it helps a little to know that he is just as seemingly miserable as you are. Presumably about all this. Hopefully about all this.

  
  


_Still doesn’t make it hurt any less._

  
  


\--

  
  
  


Perhaps you are hanging on to him like this because it’s painful, and this pain has always been your closest, most reliable friend after all.

  
  
  


_\--_

  
  
  


You abandon the hope for love or romance a bit after that, and throw all your energy into becoming a better person.

  
  


If you were to get deeply analytical about it, there may be a subconscious part of your deeply imperfect brain that hopes he’ll change his mind someday, and you want to be deserving of him if he ends up chucking Him aside.

  
  


Then, just as autumn starts to roll around, a ridiculous therapy exercise changes everything.

  
  


After one particularly brutal session attempting to define what actually properly constitutes a healthy _friendship_ , you’re feeling thoroughly beaten down. Even with Boo, you had not been a true friend entirely, and it was something your therapist was not afraid to call you out on. 

  
  


You’re left feeling miserable, lonely, and grieving.

  
  


Feels like a perfect time to treat yourself with a read through of his latest newsletter.

  
  


His writings seem even more downtrodden than before. The opening letter is very robotic, just scripture quotes with minimal commentary. Even worse, there is a placeholder where his restaurant review should be this time. Just a little frowny bit of clipart and a message that he was not feeling well enough to go out this month.

  
  


The timing feels off, and yet at the same time, fated.

  
  


One of the standout ideas from today _(outside of hammering on your personal shortcomings)_ was that your tendencies could stem from selfish expectations. 

  
  


The shrink’s voice replays in your mind with perfect clarity: “Perhaps you may act the way that you do because you only ever focus on how to meet your own needs”

  
  


You have homework this time, like it’s Grade 9 all over again. Before the next session you’re to do something nice for a loved one that you cannot be directly thanked for or receive reciprocity. 

  
  


_You have to practice being selfless._

  
  


But now looking at him indirectly through the computer screen, knowing how miserable he seems, you decide that he might actually be the least complicated person to practice acts of kindness without expectation of reciprocation on.

  
  


It’s either the worst or best idea you’ve ever had. 

  
  


Still not ready to talk to him, you strategize a completely anonymous act of kindness. Ignoring the entire time that it feels wrong to _scheme_ about doing something nice for someone. But also, given that it’s you, it makes sense.

  
  


You’ve got a dinner planned with Belinda this week anyways, so after your usual drinks and starters ( _and flirting)_ and claims you’ll skip dessert but end up ordering it anyways, you stop the hostess’ stand on the way out and ask to buy a voucher. _“It’s for a friend,”_ You tell her even though you don’t have to. 

  
  


When you’re home again, just for a moment, you consider putting your name on the envelope. _(Not the point of this though)_

  
  


Instead, you write up a quick note to throw inside to really seal the deal.

  
  


_Love the restaurant reviews in the parish newsletter, Father. Hope you feel better soon, because I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on their sticky toffee pudding. I’m praying for you. :)_

  
  


Most of what you’ve written is meant as misdirection, so he does not suspect that it’s _you_ and that you’re secretly buying his affections back with restaurant vouchers. It’d be a cold day in Hell that you genuinely write about praying for anyone and then end it with a handwritten emoticon. 

  
  


But also, even though it’s a lie, he deserves that little bit of comfort. It’d mean a lot to him to believe someone out there was praying for him.

  
  


Before you can change your mind and completely ruin the anonymity of the exercise, you address it and throw the letter in the post and try to forget about it.

  
  


\--

  
  
  


In the next newsletter, his review of the restaurant is glowing. 

  
  


You particularly like the bit where he enthusiastically acknowledges “the kindness of an anonymous parishioner who recommended the pudding, and kindly covered the cost of the meal.” 

  
  


You’re _really_ pleased with yourself. 

  
  


For a moment, you consider sending him another voucher for somewhere you go frequently. The thought of an ‘accidental’ run-in thrills you far more than it should. But really there isn’t a particular spot that you could easily wait at for long stretches just in case. And sending him to the cafe would be a bit too on the nose, ( _and not the point of this awful exercise)_

  
  


Instead, at the recommendation of your therapist, you just sit with the discomfort of knowing you did something actually friendly for someone you’d once said was a friend, and he would never be able to properly return the favor.

  
  


( _It’s horrendous)_

  
  


It just makes you miss him more somehow.


	2. Between past and present tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The holiday spirit moves Fleabag to make another friendly gesture to the Priest.)

After your successful dip into kindness espionage with the priest, you try really hard to focus on other things. 

  
  


Like being a somewhat better sister to Claire, with more sincere check-in texts and less jokes about her sex life. And taking Dad out more regularly to catch up, even if you have absolutely nothing to chat about. You eat plenty of salads with pine nuts on them because it  _ absolutely  _ means you are a fucking grown up. You start back up with exercise and drinking less and going on actual proper dates that do not end with sex in your flat.

  
  


You’re not fucking perfect, but you do your best.

  
  


You check on the St. Ethelred’s page less frequently, but you still can’t completely stop yourself from peeking. ( _ He seems okay. Still struggling, you gather, but less noticeably so) _

  
  


Before you know it, it’s mid November and you’re in the entryway of a Boots staring down a gaudy display of tinsel and ornaments. Probably should get cracking on holiday shopping at some point soon. Typically you wait until the last minute, then either pass out vouchers, or if you can get away with it, claim it’s on backorder and should arrive by parcel anytime.  _ (It doesn’t) _

  
  


But during this time of self-improvement, you decide that the right thing to do is to actually put some thought into the holidays for a change.

  
  


Another day, you’re in a bookstore looking for anything vaguely artsy you can buy on discount to give to Godmother. You’re trying to be better, but you’re still you, and you can’t be arsed to spend a lot of time and money on _her._

With some bargain anthology about the history of sculpture or some other bullshit in your hand, you’re about to head out when a Self-Help section stops you cold. It’s a whole display of preachy books with swear words in the titles, and there’s a gaggle of teenage girls giggling nearby at the sight of them.  But a teal book catches your eye, and the title immediately makes you think of him. Of that speech that still pops up in your dreams on occasion. His words from Dad’s wedding replay in perfect clarity: 

  
  


_ “When you find somebody that you love...it feels like hope.” _

Even though you’re doing your damndest to put him in the past, he always finds a way back in.

  
  


Then suddenly you’ve snagged a copy and thrown it on the cashier’s counter before good sense stops you. The minute you get home, you preview the first few chapters to see if it’s any good ( _ It is _ ). Suddenly, inspiration hits.

  
  


It’s really unclear when exactly you had decided to give this book to  _ him _ as a gift. All you know is you distinctly remember how hard he had tried during that awful engagement dinner to hype you up about getting a counseling session as a gift. Also he’d made a throwaway comment about how he never gets gifts, which was really quite sad.

  
  


So maybe just this once, even though you know it can’t really be from you, you want to at least give him that little something.

  
  


You gift wrap the book and attach a generic blank card, because you definitely can’t be bothered to buy overpriced holiday cards with Santas or naked baby Jesuses on them. Inside you write in another lie of a note: 

  
  


_ Happy Christmas, Father. I know this book is a bit sweary, but my grandson said it was very helpful. Hope you like it. _

  
  


The bit about the grandson is absolute shit, but this gift might be a bit more obvious than the last one you sent his way. So you need to chuck him as far off as possible. At the same time you also want to make it clear that this isn’t a mean gift either. Given the title, this could be misinterpreted as an insult, which isn't the case.

  
  


He likes to read, and he’s all about hope apparently. That’s all it is.

  
  


You decide to deliver it yourself this time, which is extremely risky, but you’re well aware that you’ll need to be quite secretive about it. It’s been a while since you’ve done something dangerous anyways. Just the thought of it gets you a little  _ (VERY) _ aroused, honestly.

  
  


That is how you find yourself on a restless night a little past five in the morning, walking down an empty street, towards his church. Every building in the vicinity is pitch-black and it is eerily quiet. Perfect for sneaking a gift to the rectory doorstep of your ex priest.

After the deed is done, the parcel resting obviously on the front step, for a split second you look up longingly at the window you know he’s sleeping behind. Deep down, you accept this is the real reason the holiday spirit moved you to pick up a book and bring it to him yourself.

  
  


Wishing that his silhouette was visible through the glass, just for a quick peek. 

  
  


Foolishly hoping that somehow your presence was still so undeniable that it called to him and gave you a chance to see him. Even briefly, even far enough where you cannot touch.

  
  


It’s pitch black and you can’t see anything though. So you lie to yourself and think that just maybe he was there after all.

  
  


You remove your presence from the church grounds anyways, before anyone can sense, spot, or question you.

  
  


That ache in your chest as you step away from him though? That sticks around for the holidays.

  
  


\--

  
  


This time, you don’t know for sure that he ever received the book. You don’t have any clue if he liked it, or even bothered to read it.

  
  


You do your best to move forward anyways.

  
  


\--

  
  
  


For days after, you constantly wonder what exactly moved you to do such a stupid, impulsive gesture. Desperately wishing you could take it back, despite knowing that what’s done is done.

  
  


_ At least this time it was something kind, and not destructive and awful. _

  
  


\--

For one excruciatingly, painfully long moment Godmother suggests via text that you all go to mass together. Claims it’s because they now have ‘such a connection with his church since he was the one to marry them’, _(UGH)_ but you still rightly suspect she still fancies your ex priest ( _ not your priest though, is he?)  _

  
  


The shock of the suggestion just about gives you a heart attack only three days before Christmas. What an awful way to go. 

_ (You pretend not to imagine, just for the tiniest of seconds, how unbelievably sexy he would look presiding over your post-heart attack Christmas funeral) _

  
  


But thankfully Claire plays the hero on that one, claiming that she’s too run down from all the travel and that you’ve had a jam-packed week catering work holiday parties that she had forced on you. Which is also true, you’ve had more catering gigs in the last two weeks than you thought imaginable.

  
  


“We will definitely all come round later in the afternoon for Christmas dinner though.” She says confidently, knowing that Godmother is far less likely to question it or pitch a fit when she’s the one saying it.

  
  


It is unknown whether Dad and Godmother still go by themselves to attend mass. And as your self-preservation instincts dictate, you do not ask follow up questions. 

  
  


So now it’s Christmas day, and you are quite literally stuffed with amazing food ( _ Godmother may be a horrid bitch but her cooking is exquisite)  _ and you’re all four bottles of prosecco deep collectively, so things are going quite well overall.

  
  


You and Claire have found a moment alone. Dad’s having a kip upstairs, and Godmother is leading the holiday solo inquisition of Klare in the kitchen. Both you and your sister are slouched on the sofa, on the precipice of food coma.

  
  


Now is your moment to thank her for how she's spared you. 

  
  


“Thanks for getting us out of mass today.” You tell her, earnestly grateful that you did not have to come clean about your informal ban at St. Ethelreds to Godmother, who would  _ not  _ have let that slide without thirty five additional questions and a colossal meltdown.

  
  


She just nods as an acknowledgement. “I suspected that you might not be ready to face...you know who.” 

  
  


It fills you with perverse enjoyment that he occasionally gets treated like Voldemort, unable to be properly named around her. 

  
  


“And frankly, for all I knew, we would’ve run into Martin and Jake and that would have been a million times worse than you maybe having to say hello to your priest.”

  
  


_ (Not your priest though, is he?) _

  
  


Now that she’s brought him up though, you have a sudden urge to come clean about how you’ve kept a connection with not-yours-anymore priest.

  
  


Damn him for making the urge to confess something so alluring.

  
  


“I have to tell you something. I might have done something just a tiny bit mental. Promise you won’t judge me if I tell you?”

  
  


She glares at you, her eye daggers clearly stating that no such a promise will be made.

  
  


You tell her anyways.

  
  


“I might have gotten him a Christmas present, and dropped it off with a fake card at the rectory doorstep in the middle of the night.” 

  
  


Whether it’s drowsiness from the excessive meal, tipsiness from the alcohol, or just the sheer stupidity of what you’ve just admitted, she just stares at you. Processing that information.

  
  


“You... got him a Christmas present?” 

  
  


You nod. “Yeah. Just got him a book.”

  
  


“What the hell is a fake card?”

  
  


“I put a Christmas card in it but signed it as just some anonymous churchgoer. Didn’t actually sign my name on it.”

  
  


“What book did you buy him?” She’s getting more terse, so she definitely suspects you’ve done something really naughty. Even by your standards.

  
  


You pull out your phone, look up the title on Google, and show her the cover. She eyes it cautiously, yet obviously irritated. She raises an eyebrow at you, fully aware of the irony of what you’ve done.

  
  


“He broke your heart and you secretly bought him a book called  _ Everything Is Fucked?”  _ A long beat, then, “That’s actually pretty fucking brilliant.”

  
  


She offers you a congratulatory toast on your cunning gesture, you both clink your wine glasses together, and break out into peals of laughter that permeate deep inside your soul. 

  
  


You’re having fun. Together. 

  
  


A true Christmas miracle.

\--

So against all odds, the holidays end on a positive note.

You end the year feeling inexplicably hopeful that maybe, just maybe, the story of you and the priest is not quite over yet.


	3. In love with love and lousy poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag has some conversations with Chatty Joe and the former Bank Manager's wife that set some big things in motion)
> 
> Brief scenes with an OC incoming :)

Somehow, time passes. The café is still doing great, which keeps you busy enough that you blink and suddenly it’s February.

Valentine’s Day is an awful fucking mess. You’re about a half glass of cabernet shy of the courage to break all the rules and knock down his church doors begging for another steamy confession. Instead, you stay in your flat with your vibrator, graphically reliving that incredible night with a priest and call that kind of worship sufficient.

Spring rolls around rather uneventfully.

Yet you find it’s soon become almost a second nature to find little ways to show the priest you ( _still, somehow_ ) love some anonymous ( _strictly friendly_ ) gestures of caring. Maybe it’s your superpower now.

And this particular instance, you don’t have to spend anything on it, or sneak onto church grounds in the dead of night.

Chatty Joe is in, because it is Chatty Wednesday after all, and this time he says something that catches your attention in a wholly unprecedented way.

"I have to find a new church." He states with an odd blend of excitement at the prospect, and disappointment in the circumstances.

Even though your stance on religion hasn’t changed at all, just the word church gets you a little hot in the collar. You put your tray down and listen fully.

“There’s a new fella taken over at my old church and he’s very unfriendly. Very doom and gloom about the whole state of things if you ask me. I don’t think I want that in my church experience myself. I like a priest who looks more on the sunny side of things.”

Even though your throat dries out at the mere mention of the word priest, and you certainly don’t believe in it, this feels like possibly divine intervention. “You know, you should try going to service at St. Ethelred’s sometime.”

“I didn’t figure you for the churchgoing type, dear.” He seems genuinely shocked that you’ve given him any recommendation on this matter. _(He’s not wrong on that)_

“I’m not, but the priest there was the one who did my dad’s wedding.” He did know about the wedding, though not about all the priest-related sex shenanigans you’d gotten yourself into during that period. “He’s very friendly, I think you’ll like him. Just...maybe don’t tell him I was the one who sent you.”

Joe’s raises an eyebrow at this, clearly perplexed by your sole demand.

“Just that he knows I’m an atheist and I’d hate for him to have a bad first impression of you.”

He accepts this with a smile, and starts up chatting about something else. Probably about insurance on old church buildings. You’ve stopped listening and tuned him out, like it is just a regular Chatty Wednesday.

Unlike the incident at Christmas, you do not suffer from immediate remorse at performing another unsolicited altruism. The self justification on this one is pretty straightforward, and not selfish in the slightest.

Above all, you suspect that not-your priest would appreciate having a proper chatty friend.

One who will _not_ try to seduce him in the rectory.

\--

Things are going so well café-wise that you can actually afford to hire on help. There’s now Anna and Ethan, who are a pair of obnoxiously friendly university students who can manage things on Sundays so you can take a day off every once in a while.

Which you take advantage of, meeting up with Sharon ( _the former bank manager’s wife_ ) for brunch on this particular Sunday. It’s a slightly boozier affair than you expected, because she’s such a sweet and homely type every time she’s in for a Chatty Wednesday. But with the kids off at their grandparents for the weekend, you’re both free to go wild.

So you’re a few cocktails deep, and you’ve moved past the standard pleasantries and into the more substantial, personal topics. For once, she’s avoiding discussing children and parenting. It’s obvious she is desperate for a day off as much as you are.

You guess that you're probably one of her only childless friends left. Hence, the invitation. You’re not bothered by this in the slightest.

She is ranting about a book club that she was forced into by some of the other bored housewives in her social circles. Every now and then she throws in juicy bit of goss and for just a split second, you imagine finding a husband and a house like that. Just to be surrounded by the deviant sexiness of hushed housewife drama.

“...But Leslie kept going on and on about the virtues of love in modern literature, as if she had any clue what the word meant when she’s shagging her husband’s work partner on the side.”

Once you’ve jumped back into the conversation, you are quickly desperate for her to redirect the focus off analyzing romance novels and onto all the sordid details of her friend Leslie’s extramarital sexual encounters. But you suspect she is going to stick with the literary analysis for now. How boring.

“I mean how can you say that any relationship is properly rich in love without total, unqualified honesty? If you cannot share the most intimate secrets with your partner, it’s hard to call what you feel love, don’t you think?”

_(That’s a bit on the nose.)_

Still, you nod. It’s the response she is staring at you, waiting expectantly for.

“Oh gosh, sorry! I went on a bit of a rant there.” She takes a long, comically loud sip from her drink. “I just get very excited talking about romance. Speaking of…”

_(Oh God.)_

Mercifully, your waitress comes round to check in with you both. Your pulse quickens while you sit silently and as Sharon inquires about another glass of water. You are painfully aware of what question has been queued up.

Suddenly you find yourself desperately missing that needy waitress from your dad’s engagement party. She would have popped in about every five minutes and kept the conversation from heading down such an alarming path.

But your waitress now is only mildly engaged with her profession, so she’s disappeared in a flash, and likely not to return fast enough to save you.

Which leaves Sharon free to finish her previous thought. “What about you, how’s your love life been lately?”

Even though you’re expecting it, you just about choke on your drink anyways. “Frankly, non-existent.”

It’s still a struggle for you to answer questions, to let people in like that. You’re working on it, and the lovely buzzing feeling you’ve got from the drinks helps a little bit.

Terrifying prospect is that she’ll keep digging further.

“That’s a damn shame. You’re young, you’re beautiful. Men should be knocking down walls to get with you.”

_(She is absolutely legless now. Good on her.)_

“Well, honestly, I’m taking a bit of a breather on that front. So the walls of London should be safe for now I imagine.” You laugh despite yourself, despite all the really depressing reasons you’ve taken a break on love.

You hope that your laughter is cheeky enough to skate by this topic relatively unharmed. That she’ll move on to something else. Possibly a childcare question will come in by text. Or some other intervention will come in from on high to stop this from going any further.

But she gives you a look that makes it clear she’s cut right through your defenses. _(This is what you end up with for having proper friends now.)_

“Why is that?” She asks, as if she doesn’t already somehow know the answer.

You really appreciate her friendship, but you just can’t quite bring yourself to talking about him out loud like this. The conversation she seeks from you is not light, and it is not simple. It’s not just telling your friend about the priest from your dad’s second wedding. It’s not just discussing a former friend and a former lover, like he is any other anecdote in your long and sordid romantic history.

It’s reintroducing him back into your reality once more, when you still haven’t found a way for fully moving on.

She nods in understanding anyways. It is petrifying how observant she can be. “Let me guess. Broken heart?”

It takes you a long time to build up the courage, but eventually you croak out a “Yes.”

“Honestly, darling? I’ve figured since pretty early on. You’ve got a sadness in your eyes, even when you’re smiling or pretending you’re alright.”

She lays a hand on top of yours, and grips tightly. It’s comforting beyond measure. “It will pass. But it’s okay to not be one hundred percent fine all the time.”

Those words. Her words now. His words then. They all swarm like mosquitos around you. Buzzing incessantly. You find what she’s said comforting at its core, certainly. But you are flooded with the sense memory of sitting on the bus stop bench, in that red dress, hearing him utter those two words that shattered your entire world.

_It’ll pass._

It hadn’t though.

Then, you force yourself back to reality. Focus on the details in the here in now, not there in the past. Now its brunch with Sharon. Beautiful Sunday morning, away from work. Some bright spots in an otherwise murky existence.

Sensing your discomfort with the direction of the conversation, she changes the subject. Starts back on about the book club again, and how you should definitely join her. _(You won’t.)_ Her pleas for someone fun to join in the stuffy group of women are hilariously diverting.

You manage to swallow down your sadness, and return to a pleasant conversation.

After your bill is settled, and you send her stumbling into a taxi _(She’s really gone hard today),_ you decide to walk around for a bit. Clear your head.

That’s when you see Chatty Joe further down the pavement.

It’s admittedly slightly off-putting to see him outside the café. You’ve only ever seen him there. But he’s a human being, with a home and other places to go. _(Stop being so egocentric.)_

You give him a polite wave and his returning smile is buoyant and light. _(Definitely gonna be a long chat now, better be prepared)_

When he starts walking at a brisker pace towards you, you’re expecting either exciting news or a Chatty Sunday here on this random street.

“Hello Joe.” _(Please keep it short.)_

“Hello you. What a coincidence! I’ve just had a nice chat with the priest over at the church you suggested. Such a lovely fellow, very chatty. I think I’ll be going back there more regularly.” He’s got a bounce in his step that can only come from finding a place that you belong.

“That’s great, Joe.” You say with a smile that should hopefully cut the conversation off at that point.

_(It doesn’t. He talks at you about it for another 7 minutes, until mercifully Claire calls and he has to let you go)_

It still feels like a success, not-your priest and Joe having a friendly chat. You feel connected with him once more, even if it is just by association only. You end up with the silliest smile throughout the phone call, and the rest of the day at the memory. 

_(Even if what she had said about sharing intimate truths as a hallmark of love weighs about four stone in both your head and heart all the while.)_


	4. I'm unconsoled, I’m lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anniversary brings about a revelation.

Soon enough, summer comes in like a car crash.

  
  


Dad and Godmother decide to celebrate their first anniversary with another public family dinner ( _different restaurant this time, as you’ve all no doubt been permanently banned from the last one)_

  
  


Early on in the evening, Godmother dramatically laments the fact that their priest was unable to join them tonight. She tells you all about how she’d extended an invitation _(Called begging at least five times)_ but he unfortunately had a previous engagement.

  
  


You know the truth of why he had declined. At least he was polite enough to give an excuse and not confess the whole sordid affair.

As if you hadn't been already, just the mention of his name comes up and all you can think about throughout the main course is him. His absence from the day, and from this uncomfortable celebration, is preordained and gigantic.

  
  


Every day for the last year, there had been some part of you (no matter how small) that thought the cracks in his voice and his tears and that ‘‘I love you’ betrayed just enough inner conflict that gave you a shot. Just the smallest of possibilities that his choice was not fixed and ironclad.

  
  


You fooled yourself into believing that there was still hope.

  
  


But on this awful night, whatever irresponsible dreams you were clinging to that he would someday change his mind drift away, like a child losing their grip on a bundle of balloons at a fete.

  
  


Then that old familiar pain resurfaces, and keeps you well-behaved enough where all of the snide Godmother comments roll off like teflon without retaliation. She’s smugly proud of herself for this evening, for your perceived subservience. 

  
  


You make a quick promise to yourself to repay this debt at a later and more convenient time.

  
  


The dynamic Claire/Klare duo are still sickeningly happy, exchanging loving glances when they think no one is noticing. _(You notice)_

  
  


Eventually you all finish your meals without violence, loss of life or limb, and you all depart on good terms. ( _It’s a bit disappointing, frankly)_ And you are more than happy for this evening to be over so you can have a proper wallow in the privacy of your flat. First, a quick cigarette. Then, taxi and home.

  
  


But…

  
  


“Are you alright?” The downside to your new-found, close-ish relationship now is that Claire notices that you are upset. You delay your smoke break because you don’t want to get scolded on today of all days.

  
  


You’re well aware that she has a lie detector built in that brain of hers and that it’s not worth trying to pull one over on her. Lacking the energy to fight, you answer.

  
  


“Not really.” You go with the truth this time. “I just...fucking miss him.”

  
  


She does not ask for further elaboration.

  
  


“Well, I can’t even imagine, today especially…” 

  
  


It's obvious to you both that this allegedly happy day will always be haunted by unpleasant memories.

And In this moment, you finally comprehend why being open and communicating is such a big fucking deal, even though your therapist has been trying to crack that nut for over a year now. 

  
  


It is an unbelievable comfort that Claire knows everything, and is able to offer support in her own way without having to be asked. Without explanation, and especially without prompting.

  
  


She gives you a hug, a real one, that contains no trace of discomfort. She lets you cry on her shoulder a bit. When you break apart, she gives you just a moment of total quiet. It’s a scene straight out of a film, honestly.

  
  


At this point, Klare has made his way to the pair of you and is gently coaxing the two of them towards a taxi. Claire promises that she’ll call tomorrow, and you know that she will now.

  
  


Then, once more, you are alone.

  
  


—

  
  


You make it back to your flat finally, weary and heartbroken. A year had passed, and with it, he’d been so certain that your feelings would too. But that was a fucking lie, and part of you wonders whether he knew that at the time too. If he thought it would be more comforting than the truth.

  
  


In the privacy of your own home, you allow yourself to indulge all of your saddest, most pathetic feelings about the past year. About the priest who was not, and never could be, yours.

Some of what you miss about him is obvious. The sex was incredible, certainly. You’d be kidding yourself if you didn’t admit that he frequently pops up in your raunchiest and explicit fantasies.

  
  


But it’s more than that. You miss the uncountable number of endearing traits that made him stand out from all the other men in your past, present and future. The dorky food puns, and how he blushed when bringing them into conversation. The way his voice cracked whenever he was excited. The way he saw through you, knew what to ask as if he could read your thoughts.

  
  


You wonder why you can’t quite seem to let this go.

Though there is no discernible hope for a future with this man, you are still despairingly trapped in loving him. Not with him. It is not mutual, or shared. Which makes you fucking furious, honestly. 

Lacking a suitable in person substitute, you end up shouting at the bible sitting on your nightstand. “Why can’t I let you go?”

  
  


Unsurprisingly, his silly book offers no response.

  
  


You finally give up and crawl into bed after that. Feeling no closer to answers, and nowhere near ready for a restful sleep.

  
  


\--

  
  


The next day, as promised, Claire calls. 

  
  


In a wholly uncharacteristic move, she has decided to extend her visit a little longer, and will be catching a flight much later in the evening instead. She would very much like to spend some time at your flat, watching trash telly and indulging in some good old-fashioned British snacks, since Klare is all about health schemes and nature documentaries. 

  
  


( _You don’t buy the paper-thin excuse. She’s worried about you, and you’re too emotionally spent to fight her on it)_

  
  


You cannot help but wonder if a catastrophic brain tumor has caused this personality change, or if it’s just love that’s softened her edges.

  
  


Either way, you’re grateful for the company. She picks you up to pop into Sainsburys for a few essentials for your afternoon, since your cooler is mortifyingly bare at the moment. While she’s dashing through the aisles methodically, you meander aimlessly. Your head is probably still stuck somewhere in St. Ethelred’s.

  
  


At some point you look up and she is nowhere to be found. Still you wander leisurely, certain she will turn up at some point.

  
  


Then a few minutes later, she emerges from the next aisle over, grabs you by the shoulder, and guides in the opposite direction from where you had been heading.

  
  


It’s extremely dodgy. The entire time you two walk at a brisk pace, and she keeps darting her eyes about the store, furthering the suspicious scene.

  
  


“What’s going on?” 

  
  


“What do you mean?” She’s quite good at keeping her voice completely neutral. But you can tell something’s up.  
  


“Why do you keep looking around like you’re expecting an assassin to pop round the corner?”  
  


“I’m not.” Her eyes look sharply to the left again on cue, as if to directly contradict her.

  
  


You immediately assume the absolute worst. “Oh God, is Martin here?”

  
  


“No, thank fuck. _That_ would be a nightmare.” You believe her when she says this, but there’s still something so odd about the way she’s behaving. 

  
  


Like it may not be her boorish ex-husband here in the store, but someone else she is desperate to avoid.

  
  


After a few more minutes of extremely terse shopping slash avoiding, and whatever threat she seems to be anticipating appears to be neutralized, she relaxes. You pay up front and head back to your flat without questioning her 

  
  


The rest of the afternoon, you start to wonder if you had just imagined the whole thing.

  
  


\--

  
  


Claire sticks around as said, her luggage waiting patiently by the door for her. Eventually you start to wonder if she really had postponed her flight back or if she had always planned on staying the extra time from the beginning, just as a precaution. In case you were not actually doing okay. It was quite sweet of her to make up some bullshit just to make you feel better.

  
  


After she finally leaves for the airport, you start thinking again. About how weird Claire had been in the store, whether she had lied about her travel plans. And it is your paranoid analysis of the situation as a whole that acts as a catalyst for a significant epiphany. 

  
  


Answering the question you scrutinized so intensely the night before. 

  
  


A montage of relevant moments in the past year replays:

  
  


_“If you cannot share the most intimate secrets with your partner, it’s hard to call what you feel love, don’t you think?”_

And.

  
  


_“Why can’t I let you go?”_

  
  


Also.

  
  


_“What are you not telling me?”_

And.

_“Tell me what’s going on underneath there.”_

  
  


It hits you.

  
  


That day in the café, when he was dangerously close to getting to know you so fully, the topic was so close to coming out. The words caught in your throat, _she’s dead,_ and it drove him nuts. It nearly drove you mad as well, wanting both to keep him out and let him in. And it’s been sticking with you ever since.

_  
  
_

You come to the awful conclusion that possibly the last thing holding you back from letting this man go completely, just might be Boo. 

  
  


He was someone you trusted, but you could not even give him that piece of yourself.

  
  


You’re certain that if you have any hope of opening up to anyone in future, of opening yourself up to love again, you have to jump over this hurdle.

  
  


So, against your better judgement, you decide the only way that this has any chance of actually passing is if you tell him the truth.

  
  


You have an idea of how to make it happen, but fuck. It is a really, _really_ bad idea.


	5. Armed with every precious failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag takes a leap of faith and seeks some forgiveness)
> 
> ((This one gets a bit heavy but there will be light at the end of the tunnel, I promise!))

_ Why does it have to be him? _

  
  


It’s a question you ask yourself repeatedly as you wrestle with this particular scheme that you have recently concocted. Going to his church, into his confession...box, thing. Baring your soul to him in a location that you are explicitly unwelcome. The whole thing makes your stomach ache at just the thought of it.

  
  


But you know _ why  _ it has to be his church. His confession. Him.

  
  


So you sit with the idea for a little while. A few weeks to build up the courage. And then, you go.

  
  


And just to be quite clear, you do  _ not  _ go in to win him back or seduce him away from God. You consider it, for a moment. The thought of revisiting that shared moment in the confessional ( _ before a painting of Jesus was the ultimate cockblock)  _ drives you absolutely mental. 

  
  


But he’s already made his choice, and it was not you.

  
  


Anything else would be wrong, in the truest sense of the word.

  
  


As you step into the church, you feel that intense guilt pang once more. You’re being a rule breaker of the most severe degree. He asked you not to come to the church again. Likely because he feared that even with the best of intentions, you would tempt him into breaking his vows again.

  
  


But you know this is not a seduction, or a declaration of love, or anything else to persuade him to leave the priesthood. Both he and the other He have absolutely nothing to worry about.

  
  


No. This is exclusively about closure. About letting go of the one thing that is keeping you holding onto him, the one regret you have about it all.

  
  


If you do this right, he won’t even know you’re there. You’ve been hiding in his shadows for over a year now. He won’t know you’re there now, just like he knew nothing about the other times.

  
  


Even if he did, surely he would grant you this one concession, if it helped you find peace. Isn’t that the whole point of what he does?

  
  


You slip in while he’s still in the confessional ( _ you looked up what it’s called)  _ when you’ve got the best shot to be shrouded in anonymity. Just any other repentant catholic, as far as he knows.

  
  


It is now officially the closest you’ve been to him since he held your hand and broke your heart at that bus stop. The reaction is intensely and immediately physical. Your pulse quickens in his proximity, breaths shallow and quickfire. It’s unclear whether your legs are shaking due to adrenaline or anxiety. Possibly it is his God’s punishment for pretending to be Catholic to confess.

  
  


At least your nerves make your voice tremble and higher pitched in a way that helps disguise your identity. “Bless me Father, it’s been over a year since my last confession.” You play the part well. 

  
  


The memory of your last confessional replays in your mind like it’s a clip show.  _ (or a raunchy pop-up advertisement) _

  
  


“That’s okay. Welcome back then.” His voice is level, professional, and quite cordial. So either he no longer remembers the sound of your voice, or he is pretending not to know it’s you.  _ (Not sure which one is worse)  _ “Tell me what’s been weighing on your heart.”

  
  


You take a deep, shuddering breath. Even though you’ve rehearsed this speech practically everywhere you could--internally on your way here, in front of the mirror, in your therapist’s office….everywhere--what you are about to say still terrifies you.

  
  


“I... did something really terrible a while ago. And….because of it, my best friend died. So what’s been weighing on my heart is... that I feel solely responsible for my best friend’s death.”

  
  


“Why is that?” There’s no judgement in the question, just his usual compassionate inquisition. “Sorry, I’m not prying. I just think that talking it through may help you find peace.”

  
  


You want to bolt. Even though this was what you know you need, it hurts far worse than you could have ever imagined it would. To lay your darkest secrets bare, for him to finally know you completely. Unable to hide the worst of you any longer.

  
  


Still, you tell him.

  
  


“I had sex with her boyfriend. Add that one to the sin tally count I suppose.” The joking helps ease the tightness in your chest for just one millisecond, but your breath is still shaking horribly. “She never found out it was me, but she knew that he’d cheated on her.” 

  
  


( _ Flashes of recaps play, tormenting you once more.)  _

  
  


“Go on.” He coaxes gently.

  
  


“And then…” 

  
  


It’s too difficult. But you are never going to have the courage to come this far again. So even with your insides shredding up horribly, you continue. 

  
  


“She just wanted to hurt herself to punish him, or win him back maybe. I couldn’t stop her. Then there was an accident and it killed her. So really, by all accounts, it’s my fault she’s gone.”

  
  


The silence that ensues is terrifyingly long. Your chest is painfully tight with guilt and fear and a million other emotions you cannot name. It may actually rip you in half.

  
  


“That sounds like a very heavy emotional burden to hang onto.” The understanding that he displays in his attempts to comfort you is overwhelming. He is quite good at this, which you never had wholly appreciated about him before. “But if you ask me, I don’t think it’s your  _ fault _ that she died.”

  
  


_ (First time anyone’s ever said that so directly before.) _

  
  


Still, you roll your eyes. “But I was the reason…”

  
  


“Yes you made a bad choice that had some awful consequences. But her boyfriend also made a choice, to cheat on someone he cared about. You didn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to do, from the sounds of it.”

  
  


( _ First time anyone’s said it that way either.) _

  
  


“And it also sounds like your friend made a choice too. It’s incredibly sad what happened though, an absolute tragedy. I’m very sorry for your loss. But while I understand why you feel guilty, I don’t know that you can or should shoulder all the blame.”

  
  


You can feel some of the knots in your stomach unfurl as he talks. Whether it’s just the sound of his voice or the content of his speech, his presence is making everything feel… not better, but getting there.

  
  


“Everyone makes choices, good and bad. I understand. I know that God certainly understands that. He knows you. He created you. And I believe that above all, He would want you to forgive yourself.”

  
  


You’re not certain when exactly you’ve started crying, but you are definitely aware of it when you try to speak again. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  
  


“Pray on it. Ask for Him to show you a path to peace within Him.” ( _ Of course that’s his solution _ ) “But I also think you should talk to your friend. In your prayers here at the church, or maybe somewhere that you still feel her presence. Just talk to her like she’s still with you.” Another long pause. “What’s her name?”

  
  


Your voice is weak still, but you manage, “Boo. Her name’s Boo.”

  
  


You can feel him smiling through the walls somehow. Maybe you’ve just officially lost it. Unclear.

  
  


“Just start chatting with Boo sometime. If it’s too difficult to start with this heavy of a topic, just go with small talk, build up to it. Then, ask her for her forgiveness, with an open heart. Then, maybe, you’ll see why you deserve it for yourself.”

  
  


A deep, shaky breath escapes. Like it’s been stuck inside your chest from the moment she walked in that street, and you can finally breathe a bit easier once more.

  
  


For just a second, you consider revealing every truth you still cling to. That it’s you in this box. That no matter how hard you’ve tried, it still just won’t pass like he said it would. All the silly gestures you’ve been sending him since you last saw him. It is such a relief to have this big secret off your chest, you now want to give him all of your troubles and you want him to know that they are yours.

  
  


But your time together is slipping away from you. He has moved on from counseling and back into the standard Catholic priest procedure, like he’s reading from a script now.

  
  


It’s probably for the best.

  
  


When he’s finished, you race out of the church before he can make his way out of the box and see that it is you. Quite literally, you run. It’s not very subtle.

  
  


There’s a chance that he’ll catch a glimpse of the back of you while you make your escape, but you do not bother to look back to check.

  
  


_ Enough,  _ you tell yourself. Time to actually figure out how to move on.

—

  
  


Against your better judgement, you do still take his advice. At least the advice he gives you about talking to Boo. 

  
  


It takes some time ( _ a lot of time _ ) to work your way up to it. You feel absolutely mental even at the prospect of talking to what you know scientifically is an empty room.

  
  


But still. You do it, because you miss her, and you actually would very much like her forgiveness someday.

  
  


And there is no place you feel her more strongly than in the cafe. So you start out by just verbally greeting her in the morning. It’s weird at first, but eventually it becomes old hat. 

  
  


Unlock the door, start the day, say a quick hi to Boo. Normal.

  
  


Just like he said, you work your way up to it. Each day you tack on just a little more.

  
  


“Weather’s shit today, don’t you think?” You say one morning shaking off the rain clinging to your brolly and every other bit of you. In your imagination, you hear her laughing at this and running back to grab you a towel.

  
  


Another day, some random tosser in a suit pops in and acts like an absolute prick. Once he’s thrown his payment at you ( _ literally throws it, who fucking does that?)  _ and walked out, you turn to the empty space and rant a bit. “Can you believe that? Jesus!” You swear you can hear her laughter echoing in the stillness of the empty cafe, followed by a long string of profanities.

  
  


Little things like this make your day better. And before you know it, you’re having longer and longer conversations with the empty room that feels like Boo is still in it.

  
  


On a particularly rough day, after you’ve closed down the cafe for the evening, you break down and decide to finally tell her about the priest.

  
  


And you tell her everything. From G&Ts to sniffing bibles, from the way his hand felt as he gripped the back of your neck to the peaceful look on his face the next morning. How sex with him brought you damn near to seeing God. Everything.

  
  


You pretend like she’s there with you, bobbing her head along.

  
  


Though there’s an empty chair across from you, somehow you still can feel her presence. 

  
  


_ Maybe everything he said wasn’t complete bullshit after all. _

  
  


“Can you believe that I ended up fucking a priest, and then I actually fell in love with him?” You can definitely hear her laughing at that along with you. “But god, I really did love him.”

  
  


Silence.

  
  


Then, just as he’d warned you would happen eventually, you somehow summon the courage to admit it out loud for her.

  
  


“I’m the one who slept with Jack.” You blurt out, and immediately feel one of the stones lift off your chest. “And I have spent the last however many days, weeks, years… hating myself for it.”

  
  


The silence continues to consume the room.

  
  


“Not just because it was...a choice I made… and that’s what killed you. Because I miss you so fucking much, Boo. And I would not hesitate to give up _absolutely everything_ to have you back.” The tears start now, but oddly enough, they’re not tears of sadness. Not tears of grief.

  
  


No, they might just be tears of relief.

  
  


“I’ve hated myself because I put all the love I had for my mother when she died, in you. Just like you asked me to. And I fucked it up. And with you gone, it felt like that love disappeared too, and that I was going to be empty for the rest of my miserable life. And I had no one to blame but myself for it all.”

  
  


You can’t explain it, but you once more feel her comforting presence, as if Boo was wrapping her up in an endless hug.

  
  


“So I’ll make you a deal.”  _ Keep an open heart and ask,  _ he gently reminds you. “If you promise me to forgive me someday for having sex with your boyfriend, I promise I’ll at least try to forgive myself for hurting you so horribly.”

  
  


Hillary, who had been dead silent this entire time, lets out a single squeak at just that moment.

  
  


Against all logic, it feels like a yes.

  
  


This knocks you out. 

  
  


And just like he’d said, you understand it now.

  
  


A pathway opens up in your head that had never shown up before. Like you may finally be able to move forward without being crushed by the weight of your guilt. Not that you are completely over it all, but that things may start to be easier to cope with in future.

  
  


—

You hate that he was right about this.

  
  


_ But not right about everything. _


	6. I am so much better than I used to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (An unexpected guest arrives at Hillary's)

It is 532 days since he made his choice between you and God, and it’s 94 days since you made your choice to at least try and let him go.

  
  


Even now, though it hasn’t fully passed, it’s manageable at the very least. Less of a blaring alarm and more like subtle background music. Sort of like hearing a Take That song when you're in the shops and having it stuck in your head for the rest of the day. Annoying, yet strangely sentimental and omnipresent.

  
  


You wake up on this particular morning with an unusual anticipation for the day, a sense that something good is coming your way. Which is really odd, because it’s just an ordinary Tuesday. No events, nothing planned. No dates, no holidays, nothing.

  
  


_Oh God, you better not be turning into an optimist._

  
  


Still, you move through your day with this inexplicable excitement buzzing through your system. Open the cafe, smile at everyone who comes in for a tea or a butty, and just generally experience a nice day for a change. 

  
  


You ignore the feeling of dread building as everything continues to go very well. Too well.

  
  


While you’re ringing up another customer, you notice Chatty Joe taking a seat at an outside table, and out of the corner of your eye you see that he is not alone. While it’s not unusual to see him on a day other than Wednesday, he rarely appears _with_ anyone else. Still, no alarms start blaring just yet.

  
  


When you go out to offer them a coffee or a tea, though, Joe greets you with a standard toothy grin and quickly introduces you to his new friend.

  
  


It’s him.

  
  


_It’s him._

  
  


He smiles at you cautiously, but his eyes betray how stunned and possibly anxious he is to see you. “Hi. Hello.” Always the cool one, isn’t he? Only you can tell he’s shaken.

  
  


Even though your ears are ringing and everything’s gone a bit blurry, you hear Joe mention that he’s just going to pop in quick to say hello to Hillary and Stephanie.

  
  


You are now alone standing across from the man who has lingered in your dreams, haunted your thoughts, and stuck around in the deepest corners of your heart.

  
  


_Fuck._ You may actually be sick this time.

  
  


“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He says in a soft voice that turns your knees to jelly. “Like an absolute idiot, I didn’t realize when he wanted to meet up that it’d be...here.”

  
  


“It’s fine.” You say with a smile that you hope at least seems sincere. “With you here to chat with Joe, I should be able to get some work done in peace for a change.” If you cannot be with him, you can at least be funny.

  
  


He chuckles and the sound is absolute poetry. 

  
  


_(Damn, you missed that.)_

  
  


Overall, he looks good. Got the dog collar on today, so he must be in full priest mode. You notice his hair’s longer, and he’s a bit tan like perhaps he’s been away on holiday recently. 

  
  


For propriety's sake, you try your best not to pay too much attention to the rest of him.

  
  


_(Doesn’t work. You notice. He’s still SO hot.)_

  
  


“Are you sure you don’t mind? That I’m here? I can fake an emergency if you’d…”

  
  


You shake your head, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The shock of it all has worn off, and you’re a goddamn professional. It would be bad business practice to turn anyone away. Besides, at this point you just would like whatever time you can get near him.

  
  


“It’s fine, really. If you need anything…” At the time, you are unclear yourself if you mean in a café owner capacity, or something more devious. “It’s literally my job today.” 

  
  


He nods politely, just as Joe returns. Joe orders cups of tea for them both, and you seamlessly switch back into professional mode. You’re a business owner, for fuck’s sake. You can handle it.

  
  
  


“It’s good to see you.” He calls out just as you’re about to head back inside. “You look well.” You can tell that he’s saying that in earnest.

  
  
  


You turn around and smile, wholeheartedly this time. “It’s good to see you too.”

  
  


—

  
  


The two men have a long proper chat, which you catch bits and pieces of as you collect dishes and wipe down tabletops. It’s an even split between God and taxes from what you can tell. 

  
  


You do your best to keep your distance, and continue to do your damndest not to imagine running your fingers down the back of his still insanely beautiful neck.

  
  


Eventually they both leave and you breathe a little easier. You ignore the disappointment that trickles in once he's left.

  
  


Then things settle down, the day passes slowly but eventually, and you finally close down for the day. You’ve flipped the sign, but didn’t lock the door just yet. Should not be an issue, you imagine. 

  
  


Then, as if a direct contradiction of your assumption, the bell chimes and the door clicks shuts behind it. You’re about to look up from your till counting to let them know you’re closed, and possibly that you’ll call the police, when.

  
  


“Sorry, I know you’re closed and I promise I’m not a robber.”   
  


_Him. Again._

  
  


Your body tenses up, and for a second you’d prefer if this was just an old-fashioned robbery. 

  
  


_He has already taken your heart, so what else could he steal though?_

  
  


He’s standing in your empty cafe, still wearing the collar and that tight-fitting black shirt that pulls your eyes towards his arms again. He’s got a hesitant smile but he’s also got this confused look about him.

  
  


You have absolutely no idea what he's doing here.

  
  


“I was hoping I could talk to you before but you seemed really busy.” 

  
  


Above all else, you were grateful that it had been steady the entire duration of his visit. You didn’t even have to fake being busy to avoid a proper conversation with him. Heat flashes through your cheeks suddenly when the thought occurs to you that this may be a confrontation about sneaking into his confession. You convince yourself that there's no way he'd wait this long just to yell at you for coming in, and it calms you down only slightly. You still have no clue what this man is thinking.

“I’m glad to see things are still going well here.” He adds, still looking thoroughly lost. Possibly that he is building up the courage to say, or ask, something.

“Oh yeah, chatty Wednesdays are still a hit and spreading out throughout the week now.” _Loneliness still sells._

  
  


There’s something about what you’ve just said that registers in his expression. Like you have just handed him a very specific piece to a jigsaw. 

  
  


Your heart is throbbing like an explosive now, so fast it might actually detonate, as you both stand in silence.

  
  


He chuckles, runs his hand through his hair. It sticks out wildly when his hands drop back down again, giving him an especially crazed look. “You are going to think I’m mad, but I’ve got something I have been dying to ask you.”

  
_  
Tick. Tick. Boom._


	7. With the last ways left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (A conversation takes place and realizations occur)

This man will, without a doubt, be the death of you. Some lofty question is hanging in the air, currently unspoken, and there he stands speechlessly wringing his hands. Reluctant to ask it. 

  
  


After all the time that has passed, you are still hopelessly desperate to know what he is thinking.

  
  


“Erm...How have you been? Are you well?” He finally asks with feeble hesitancy. Like this is clearly not the big old question he’s been, to quote, dying to ask. That it is the only thing he has the courage to speak first.

  
  


You nod your head, but it’s obvious in the way you’re looking at him that you are skeptical of his intentions. He nods back, not so much in response to your answer, but in understanding that he needs to get on with the real thing on his mind.

  
  


He takes a deep breath. “Did you… ever send me anything in the mail?”

  
  


Out of habit, you turn to your internal audience, hoping for guidance on this one. The crowd remains quiet on this one. The thought of being caught out is making you sweat, and you’re not sure why exactly. You just did a few nice things for him, that’s all.

  
  


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Defensive maneuver, very clever. Even you almost buy it.

  
  


His expression is still one of confusion, but it is slowly and obviously shifting towards clarity. “Last autumn I was going through a bit of a hard time, and someone sent me a restaurant voucher in the mail and said they were praying for me. I thought it was someone in the parish, Pam maybe, but I never worked out who it was.”

  
  


“Ooh, sounds like you’ve got an admirer.” You’re trying desperately _(and failing miserably_ ) at staying cool.

  
  


He is unphased by your attempts at diversion. “And there was also a self help book at Christmas. Wow, I _really_ should have worked it out that no one who goes to church would willingly buy me a book with ‘fuck’ in the title.”

  
  


This is no longer an investigation, it is a guilty verdict about to pass.

  
  


_(Shit.)_

  
  


He’s burying his face in his hands now, as he continues to piece together everything. “And of course, Joe mentioned at first that a nice lady at Chatty Wednesday recommended he give my church a try, I never even imagined that _you_ would have been the one to send him my way.”

  
  


The game’s been given away, so no point in trying to avoid it now.

  
  


“THAT… was probably more on the punishment side of things, honestly.” 

  
  


“So was it _all_ you then?”

  
  


For a moment, you run through a mental rolodex of possible explanations, lies you could tell. Own up to it in a joking manner, so he takes any admission slips as humor only. Pretend like he _is_ going mental. You’ve maybe got a shot of getting out of this.

  
  


But you just nod your head slowly. Just as you did when he finally worked it out that you were about to have sex in your flat that night.

  
  


In that moment, cards out on the table, he just looks at you in awe.

  
  


Like you were the light showing up on the first day, and quite possibly the sun on that other day as well, in that ridiculous fairy tale he believes.

  
  


“Why?” The information overload was processing, and he was just as shrieking and scared as the night with G&Ts and foxes in the church garden. “I mean it’s very kind, and I’m grateful. But why would you do all that for _me_ ? The bastard who....” He cannot finish the sentence, but you know how he intended it to end. _The bastard who broke his vows_ or _the bastard who broke your heart by choosing God over you._

  
  


You briefly consider just revealing the initial instigator—" _my therapist thought I should practice being a proper friend, and doing selfless acts was my homework."_ That seems like a rational explanation, right?

  
  


Instead, “Honestly?”

  
  


“Yes please.” He agrees, hesitation is thick in his voice. Almost as if he’s afraid of your truth.

  
  


“Because…” It takes a lifetime and a half for you to admit it, but somehow you manage the courage. “I figured if you were even half as lonely as I was, that the least I could do was love you as much as I could from afar without making things harder on you.”

  
  


A feather could likely tip him over at this point, he is that stunned by what you have said.

  
  


_(If you’re being honest, same.)_

  
  


He stares at you for a while, in that deeply investigative way that he always had. Observing. Noticing. What once made you squirm with discomfort--being seen, being understood--now inundates you with amity. You allow him the quiet to take it all in.

  
  
As he processes what you’ve done and what you’ve just said, you can see clearly the thought run through his head word for word, like his eyes are a teleprompter. _This could all be some clever plot to trick him into having sex with you again._

  
  


If for nothing else, you defend your honor. “I promise, this really wasn’t a deliberate plan to persuade you to choose differently, or to trick you into some devious vow-breaking entanglement again.” 

  
  


You can see his muscles relax ever so slightly, now that he’s certain you definitely will not be tearing off his clothes again here in your empty cafe. 

  
  
It finally occurs to you to wonder where exactly his revelation came from. There had to have been more clues than just seeing one another again. That’s a mystery you’ll have to solve later. Now, all you can think about and focus on is him.

  
  


“And I tried really hard to keep it all anonymous.” _(Like sneak-onto-your-church anonymously on multiple occasions under cover of dark levels of attempted anonymity.)_

  
  


He manages to whisper, “I know.”

  
  


You cannot help yourself from moving in, just a step closer, and you pretend not to notice him wince ever so slightly. Like he’s afraid of you. Like he’s afraid of how he is feeling about you right now.

  
  


Words are becoming much more difficult. It’s all too real. “I just…”

  
  


The air between you and him is absolutely electric. Like you could keep all the lights in London going just from the spark between your two static, motionless bodies.

  
  


It’s overwhelming.

  
  


“Just what?”

  
  


Your gut instinct is to disappear, turn to the crowd for an answer or a distraction. Anything. 

  
  


_Absolute silence._

  
  


The chemistry between you is still palpable, even now. In any other world, this is the precise moment that you would close the gap and press your lips to his, making up for all of the kisses you’ve missed in the last year and a half.

  
  


( _But he’s made his choice already. And you have to respect it._ )

  
  


You finish the thought. “I just want you to be happy.”

  
  


His eyes well up with tears at this, and you’re pretty positive that you are in a similar state. 

  
  


He reaches out, his hand on your elbow first, and it slowly makes its way down to your wrist. Then, cautiously, he puts his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together. Pins and needles follow down your skin every millimeter that he touches.

  
  


His mouth opens and closes immediately, as he tries and fails to find the right words.

  
  


Everything feels different now. Not just from your admission now, though. The love you have hung onto him for so long, it’s still there, but it’s shifted. Grown. Changed without you realizing it. 

  
  


You understand now that even if you cannot have romance, sex, all the things you thought you needed from him, you can survive it if you can just be near him. He helps make you better. And you would rather be just a friend and not push it further, than go without him again.

  
  


So for quite possibly the final time, you put on a brave face and lay bare your second most vulnerable position.

  
  


“You know, I have been practicing at this whole friendship thing. I’m much better at it now, I think.” He laughs, a proper laugh now, but not at you. Which is important. You can tell that the tone is lighter between you, that he is in far less distress. You continue on. “So, I’d be willing to give that a proper go again, friends only, if you’d have me.”

  
  


He can see that this is not a plot, or a scheme. He sees you so fully and clearly, the only man to ever notice when you disappear to your internal audience. The only man to hold on to your heart for so long.

  
  


Then he just smiles. “I’d love that.”

  
  


—

  
  


You both agree to take the whole friends-again thing slowly. Like at a snail’s pace, or possibly even slower than that.

  
  


Likely because you would happily rip off those fucking clothes the first chance you could, and you’re cautiously optimistic he still feels the same way. While it isn’t an issue for you--you are morally free to any destruction-of-seams that you see fit--you know that he is still struggling with those feelings. And you meant it when you said that you'd take his friendship over his absence.

  
  


Also, even though it was your brilliant suggestion to invite him back into your life, you're also still hesitant to fully trust yourself with him. Part of you is constantly waiting for an invitation to that bus stop that’s always the backdrop of your breakups.

  
  


So, you start impossibly small. Texting only.

  
  


The odd meme here or there to start ( _he sure does love a good Catholic church joke superimposed on cartoon characters)_ , or breezy check-ins. _How's Hillary and Stephanie doing? Still territorial?_ and _Fete's coming up, still going to rent those coconuts?_ That sort of thing.

Then, over time, the conversations run longer and longer.

  
  


It seems like you’re staring at those three little dots that tell you how much he’s typing, for longer and longer periods. You look forward to hearing from him. And based on how quickly and consistently he responds back, the anticipation is pretty mutual.

  
  


One day, you get this text:

* * *

_  
I’ve got a REALLY funny story for you, but it’d take me three days to type it up. _

_Meet up for coffee tomorrow instead? Save my fingertips, please!_

* * *

  
  


You know that you’re ready to handle coffee, in public, because you do _not_ respond with the instinctual flirty text about where you’d like those very talented fingertips to end up.

  
  


* * *

_Sounds good, I’m free before 10. I have the utmost respect for those fingertips ;)_

* * *

(You’re still you so you can’t help but flirt even a little)

He's still him too, because he quickly sends back a wink emoji, and it gives just the faintest thrill.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag and the Priest meet up for coffee and tie up a few loose ends)

You meet him at a coffee shop, his choosing. ( _ “It’s not as nice as your place but they do have these amazing scones” he’d said)  _ It’s a pretty standard  _ (boring)  _ coffee shop, minimalist in style without any distinct personality, so it feels like a facsimile of every other place in town.

  
  


At the very least, it serves well enough as an incredibly neutral ground for you both to meet in, which helps ease any initial awkwardness.

  
  


And it goes well, for the most part. The story that he had hyped up takes him a full 15 minutes to tell, and involves an unfortunately-placed discarded banana peel and a fox. It is cartoonish and fundamentally unbelievable, yet the fact that it happened to him makes sense and it has you in tears of laughter by the end of it. 

  
  


You are surprised to see how at ease you feel being around him again. Conversation feels effortless, as it did in the early days before. Like shopping-for-vestments and joking-about-Quaker-meetings easy. You suspect he feels the same way, the way he’s smiling at you sincerely. Not in an about-to-break-your-heart-at-the-bus-stop way, but more in a this-is-rather-nice way. You  _ know  _ the difference.

  
  


But eventually there is a lull, and in the silence he turns quite serious all of a sudden. Leaves you quaking on the spot. “I have to confess though, I did have an ulterior motive for wanting to meet up today.” 

  
  


_ Oh god. _

  
  


“I’ve been working through the morality of something I’ve recently done for a while now.” His eyes are attached to the inside of his coffee cup, and your heart drops to the floor. 

  
  


_ Oh fuck. _

  
  


Did he bring you here as a neutral place to end this friendship thing, a place unbetrothed to both of your memories? Oh god, is this generic-looking hipster coffee shop your new bus stop?

  
  


“A large part of my job when accepting confessions is to protect the sanctity of the sacrament. That includes keeping things said in confidence...private.”

  
  


Oh.  _ Oh. _

  
  


“But at the same time, I feel like if we’re going to be friends, I need to be honest with you. So…” He looks up from his cup and straight into your eyes. God, if the beauty of his undivided attention doesn’t just make your knees weak and your heart pound. “I just wanted to say thank you for trusting me with Boo’s memory.”

  
  


"You… knew it was me."

  
  


A subtle nod is his only response.

  
  


Much like the milk steamer behind the counter that lets out a violent hiss, you can actually feel your soul leave your body as you finally breathe once more. "In a way that's a relief. I thought you'd completely forgotten me."

  
  


He chuckles mirthlessly. "I could never. Believe me, I  _ tried." _

  
  


That sentiment you can absolutely sympathize with.

  
  


So now that he has gotten that confession out of the way, the mood between you lifts in an instant and unavoidable way. You feel comfortable enough to ease back in on the conversation.

  
  


It also gives you a nice transition, because you  _ also  _ had a second motive for this meetup. You had wondered ever since the night you’d been sussed out what had given the game away on your little gift-giving exercises. It rankled to not have the answers how you had suddenly been discovered.

  
  


Had he known all along and needed the time to move on before making contact? Had someone or something clued him in at the last minute? These questions certainly do not keep you up at night, but you still really want to fucking know.

  
  


“Can I ask… how did you figure it out?”

  
  


He looks a little caught in headlights on that one. Which makes you realize you had been pretty ambiguous in your word choice there. If you were not in your own head and knew exactly what you meant, you’d have a hard time working that one out as well. 

  
  


“The book, the voucher, all that. How did you figure out it was me?”

  
  


The creases in his forehead smooth out and he smiles again. “Oh that. Yes, that is a very good question. It’d be kind of a long story to explain that one honestly.”

  
  


You just motion for him to carry on with it. No way you’re going to let him keep this from you. If you have to make this conversation last longer, you'll pick up a few more scones. He was right, they are amazing.

  
  


Besides, for this man, you have all the time in the world to give. And what better gift could there be than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments, kudos, and just reading this. I was so nervous to start writing fic again after a very long hiatus, and it meant so much to get such lovely feedback. ❤️
> 
> This felt like a good place to stop this story, but I have more coming soon. 😉

**Author's Note:**

> (Full disclosure, I am an American, and also a very rusty fanfiction writer. So please be patient with me, especially if I throw some Americanisms in without noticing. I just loved this pairing way too much to not write a way for them to end up together eventually. Also I could not get the priest's line about never getting any presents out of my head, so this story is a direct result of that.)
> 
> Story and chapter titles are lyrics from "Aside" by the Weakerthans.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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